One Way or Another(30)

“More wine?” he asked pleasantly.

“My sister is beautiful,” Lucy said, copying him and mopping up the olive oil with a piece of the very good bread. “Her name is Martha. Such an old-fashioned name, don’t you think? Actually, she was named for my great-grandmother Patron. The thing is, though, Martha doesn’t even realize she’s beautiful, she’s so modest, so un-vain, if you see what I mean.” She looked earnestly at Ahmet across the table. “She’s tall, willowy, has these lovely blue eyes and blond hair. And she’s talented. And, damn it, successful.”

“Is she an actress, then?” Ahmet found himself intrigued with the idea of a second beauty in the family. Well, actually, truth be told, Lucy was no beauty. She was attractive and sexy and very young, a winning combination in his eyes, and just what he’d been looking for. In fact, it was what he always looked for in a woman, though usually not as classy or “upmarket” as little Lucy.

In fact he already knew all there was to know about the Patron family; he’d investigated every bit of Lucy’s life, knew about Martha and her work as a designer, and the other sister, the pediatrician, and the way the parents had died. It might be useful to suggest using Martha to redecorate some rooms at his country place.

Lucy was, he thought, a long way from Little Miss Angie, that cheap troll who’d first managed to disappear into the Aegean, leaving him to wonder whether she might turn up, alive, what she might say about him, what she might try to do to him. Then, of course, he had gotten her back, safe and sound in the safest most secret place he knew, his country house on the marshes, where the wonderful, the one and only, Mehitabel had taken care of her for him. Angie was the past, Lucy was the future.

He contemplated Lucy, innocently stuffing herself with chicken parmigiana, making little sighing noises of pleasure. She was such a child, really, a fact that made him sigh with pleasure too, so that she looked up, smiling, and asked, “What?”

“What what?” he answered with a smile. “I really have to take you to my country place,” he said. “We grow our own vegetables, have our own sheep. Our lamb is delicious.”

“Oh, God.” Lucy stared, horrified, at him. “I couldn’t possibly eat anything I’d seen grazing in a field.”

“May I point out you are eating chicken that surely grazed somewhere.”

Lucy took another sip of wine, suddenly uncertain about him, he was so self-assured, so smooth, so kind-of old. “And may I point out,” she said, getting her wits back, after all, she was no dummy even if she was an actress who all men thought were dumb. “May I point out that chickens do not graze. They are not animals. They are birds.”

Ahmet laughed. He liked her. “I have to admit I never thought of it that way,” he said. “And I will make sure no lamb is served when you come to visit me.”

“Who said I was coming to visit you?” Lucy sat back. She did not like to be taken for granted, and anyhow no young woman should go alone to a man’s country house unless she was his lover or fiancée. Or wanted to be.

Ahmet was still laughing. “Certainly not you, Miss Lucy Patron. And nor, if you think about it, have I asked you. But should I ask, then I would also include your beautiful sister in the invitation.”

“Then you would have to ask Marco too.”

Ahmet raised a brow, took a sip of the wine. It was good but not top level; he should have ordered differently. “Marco Polo Mahoney?”

Of course he already knew Marco. “I know his work,” he said. “A brilliant portrait artist.”

“Painter,” Lucy said, glugging the rest of her wine and sighing deeply. “That’s what Marco calls himself.” Her stomach was full, the wine was good, and she was unexpectedly enjoying herself. A drop spilled onto her dress as she put the glass back on the table. “Oh, bugger,” she said crossly. “I love this dress and now it’s ruined.”

Ahmet called the waiter to bring a wet cloth. “It will probably come out,” he said. “I’m sorry, Lucy, it was my fault, I distracted you.”

Lucy sighed again. “No, you didn’t,” she said. “I’m just clumsy, that’s all, everybody says so. Tell me,” she said, gazing earnestly at him, “how can anyone this clumsy ever hope to be an actress?”

Ahmet thought it really didn’t matter, but what he said was, “I think I have a way to make that hope of yours come true. I was considering investing in a movie, just a small affair, no star names, but an interesting script and a wonderful location, a house on the marshes. In fact,” he added, thoughtfully, “part of the reason I was attracted was that I have a house on the Romney marshes.” He leaned across the table, reached for her hand. It was smooth, warm. Her fingers curled against his palm. “And now, I might have an actress to star in it.”

It was, Lucy thought, beaming, all too good to be true.

Ahmet smiled back at her. He knew what she was thinking, and she was right.

“We might also get your sister to come along and take a look at my country place. The drawing room could surely use some refurbishing, fabrics and such.”

“Well,” Lucy said, pleased, “of course Martha’s really good at all that. I’ll ask her for you.”

Ahmet gave a satisfied smile. Two birds with one stone.